Semiotics
by singsilverlight
Summary: "Dean huffs a laugh, shakes his head at himself, at the absurdity of this entire fucking situation. The Darkness is coming. The Darkness is God's sister. Sam is talking to God. And he's wandering the goddamned halls with his dick in his hand. None of this makes any sense." (Sequel to Rhetoric, AU from 11x06)
1. First

Dean is no stranger to nightmares. Red-limned nightmares, the smell of sulfur and shades of ash and darkness. And pain. There's always pain. Pain, and joy, and oily fucking laughter. Blackness broken by the quick shine of silver, by the saturation of blood. A flicker of blinding light, a transitory warmth in the abyss, before it is extinguished, before every last vestige of humanity is consumed by icy flames. The kind of nightmares that leave him drenched in sweat and shivering with a bone-deep chill, the phantom weight of his blade in his shaking hand.

But this – these nightmares, they're something new. Something far more insidious. Something that has taken up residency in his mind, haunting every thought, every action. Something that churns within his gut and tastes a hell of a lot like fear. These are the kind of nightmares that cling to his skin long after he's taken his second shower of the day. The kind that find him wandering the corridors of the Bunker in the small hours of the morning, searching and lost – a feeble attempt at escaping the images of spiraling smoke and painted lips twisted into a lascivious smile that fill in the darkest corners of his room where the lamp light cannot reach. The memory of a tiny, feminine hand, a gentle caress like fire, branding him, seeping underneath his skin, aching to lay claim – it follows him everywhere. Follows him out his nightmares, follows him to the showers where no amount of scalding hot water, no amount of scrubbing, will wash his skin clean. It chases him like a ghost through the halls, settling upon his shoulders when he turns his mind to menial tasks, to distractions. It waits. She waits.

As he wanders, his fingers trail along walls, carve dark paths through the dust gathered on every surface. He imagines that when he's not looking, the furniture in every room retreats, leaving vast, empty spaces behind him, until he turns and is suffocated by the closeness of everything, the walls closing in around him, the lack of space and lack of air. His home - expanding and contracting around him, crawling out of reach, out of his control, along with the rest of his goddamned life.

Dean shivers, shoves the sleeves of his Henley down to his wrists, covering as much skin as he can manage. He raises a hand to his cheek. The one she touched. His skin is burning cold.

He can feel it - the shaking of the ground he stands on. He can feel it in his bones, reverberating within the walls, cracking at their foundations. The Darkness is coming. And it's coming for him. For all of them. They're just grasping for a hold at the edge of total chaos. And apparently just living on Sam's prayers.

Dean huffs a laugh, shakes his head at himself, at the absurdity of this entire fucking situation. The Darkness is coming. The Darkness is God's sister. Sam is talking to God. And he's wandering the goddamned halls with his dick in his hand. None of this makes any sense.

He turns a corner, finds himself in the kitchen. There are only three spaces in the entirety of the Bunker that he will spend more than five minutes in alone, and the kitchen is one of them. He prefers it, really. Prefers it to the bare walls, the stacked books, the crates of his few possessions that were salvageable in the wake of the dramatically failed home invasion, that have all been shoved into the corners of his room. His room doesn't belong to him anymore, not really. It belongs to the memories. It belongs to his demons.

There's at least a measure of comfort to be found in cooking, in cleaning. It's methodical. It is entirely without violence. And that's something that Dean desperately needs. It's a distraction - a distraction from what's out there, from what's waiting for him on the other side of the door, from the nightmares, from the way his skin crawls when he thinks of ever being touched like _that_ again.

Dean idly pulls the cuff of his shirt lower over his other hand as he crosses to the fridge. He supposes he could go down to the garage, play for a bit. Dismantle his Baby's 396 CID big block and put her back together again. But that just sounds exhausting.

And really, what says 'I'm an unhinged insomniac and I don't even care' better than a ten dollar grilled cheese sandwich at five o'clock in the freakin' morning? And not that squared plastic cheese substitute crap. None of that bullshit packaged and processed to hell bread. This right here, this buttery, cheesy sonuvabitch would make Gordon Ramsey shit himself and smile about it. He stacks on layers of the thick-sliced gruyere he bought at the gourmet deli that he's kept hidden on the lowest shelf in the farthest, deepest corner of the fridge where Abominable Snowbrothers could never bend down far enough to find it. Then. Then comes the layers of thin, thin slices of the fine ass French fucking brie he's been hoarding right along with the rest of his expensive coveted cheese. A generous dollop of that spicy, fruity, homemade and jarred jam he picked up at the farmer's market, some pepper, and some butter melted with fresh garlic, salt, and rosemary, and then he pan-sears her to motherfucking perfection.

She's pure fucking gold. He's awesome.

And he's not even fucking hungry.

Sitting at the kitchen table, gazing upon the eighth wonder of the world, without motion, without distraction, he hears the silence. The quiet hum of the lights, the drone of the refrigerator, the groaning of the pipes, the dripping water falling against the sink, the ticking of the clock that's on the other fucking side of the Bunker – it's a cacophony raging in his head. It's quiet and it's still and it's loud as all fuck and his fingers are tapping against the table to the tune of abject dissonance until he finally pushes up to stand, grabs his plate, throws the sandwich into the trash and the plate into the sink, the resounding thud momentarily breaking the silence.

Dean anchors himself against the kitchen island, pulling in deep breaths, pushing back the chaos. The Bunker is quiet, it's still. It's 5:30 in the morning, it's still dark outside, Sam is asleep, and he is alone with the specters haunting them within these walls. He can feel them lurking in the shadows, behind every closed door, falling into step with him in the corridors, vanishing from his periphery just as he turns his head. There are gunshots and bloodstains and their entire lives piled in the center of their library, waiting to be burned away right along with him. The memories are visceral in the quiet, in the stillness. They are the ghosts that walk these halls and he's the one that let them in.

The illusion of safety here has been destroyed. The artifice of a home of their own is corroding, layers upon layers of choices and consequences burying the long cherished dream. Another unstable house of cards. More lies, more pretense. All that bluster about changing the way things are, yet the song remains the fucking same.

He pushes back from the counter, swipes a hand along his face, over the stubble accumulated from way too many days of not giving a fuck. His eyes rake over the dishes dirtied in his quest for the holiest of distraction grilled cheese, over the mountain Sam has created beside the sink between Dean's previous performance as master class kitchen maid and now. He sighs, but at least it's something to do.

As he flips open the faucet and grabs the stiff, crusty ass sponge off the counter, he thinks about his conversation with Cas what seems like a lifetime ago now.

 _We can't live our lives waiting to die_. Praying to the only person he has ever unerringly believed in.

 _I want to change it. I want to live_. And he does.

But his nightmares are his reality. He's being split apart, exposed - everything he is, laid open for Amara to explore, to own. His own mind doesn't belong to him, not anymore. He doesn't have a single space left in this world that remains untouched by violence, by death.

That little girl, The Darkness, one touch was all it took to break something within him. Something vital, something built up from his ability to survive the war, even in death.

For all his lack of faith, he's never stopped believing that together - him, Sam, and Cas - they were the wild cards in a guerilla war and if they were going down, they sure as fuck would drag the evil sons-a-bitches back down to Hell with them.

He isn't so sure anymore.

He needs help. He knows this. The nightmares, the late night strolls, the cooking, the cleaning, the hiding, the evasiveness…the being fucking scared all the goddamned time – he can't keep this up forever. It's killing him. Not knowing his own mind is killing him, in every way that matters, at least.

It's bad enough that he's pressing the speed dial, only to hang up before it can ring, that he's staring at the text message box for twenty fucking minutes, trying to conjure an adequate arrangement of words into some form of an apology that could, might, possibly bring Cas back home.

They didn't part well. After Amara and Metatron, everyone was on edge, everyone was falling apart and in no fucking position to hold the other ones together. They were scared, and fear leads to anger, anger leads to words, mostly words that should never, ever have been said out loud, and before he knew what was even happening, Cas was packing up Dean's laptop and said he'd be back when he found some answers. No goodbye. No time for apologies.

Plenty of time for regret.

If Dean's being honest with himself, he could have avoided a confrontation that would ultimately require apologies in the first place, but he didn't and they were and there it is.

Cas is in fucking Gaza and Dean is a fucking mess.

But what the hell was he supposed say? _So, uh, God's friggin' sister kinda bad touched me and I kinda just let it happen because I was kind of in trance and resistance was futile and she's probably going to use me to destroy the entire freakin' universe and I'm really, really fucking scared. Help me. Please._

Now that he thinks about it, he is actually kind of an idiot. He probably could have said that (or some sufficiently articulate version of that) and Cas probably would have pulled out a chair, taken a seat, clasped his hands on the table and given Dean that deep look of concern (puppy dog eyed frowny face #17) and just fucking listened. To everything. No judgment. No bitch faces. No lectures.

Dean is an idiot. What else is new.

He sighs, reaching a hand up to rub at his forehead in frustration – with himself, with the world, mostly with himself – but aborts the movement and makes a face at the grimy sponge clutched tightly in his fingers. He grabs another dirty pot off the counter, shoulders slumping and eyes rolling into the back of his head when he finds the charred remnants of whatever-the-fuck-that-could-possibly-be coating the bottom. Dean bites down on his cheek and breaks out the goddamned Brillo, shaking his head and silently cursing his brother. Because seriously? The dude is 32 freakin' years old, cooking is not that hard, and this looks like a fucking science experiment gone horribly wrong. Sam is on dish duty from now until forever. End of story.

Until tomorrow. When Dean will inevitably just wash the fucking dishes again.

But the thing is: Dean doesn't know how the hell he's supposed to explain any of this. If he knew how, maybe that would make it easier to just sit Cas and Sam down and talk this shit out. But he doesn't understand it, and he can't explain what he doesn't understand. And he doesn't even fucking know if he really doesn't understand and can't explain it, which makes the entire thing exponentially more fucking complicated. For all he knows, Lady Darkness is just pulling his fucking strings, lulling him into submission so that everyone gets a jolly surprise when she announces Armageddon at her debutante fucking ball.

This. All of this. Whatever he's done, whatever this is doing to him, to the world – it's not something you can just explain when you're standing on opposing sides from your thoroughly pissed off and disenchanted little brother and best friend.

What Dean has seen, what he knows, what he felt – every syllable carries weight. These aren't words meant to be spoken in the glaring light of day. They are secrets meant to be whispered in the dead of night, intended to be lost to the shadows. Even now, he can feel the numbing fire against his cheek, wisps of smoke pressing in on him, crawling up his spine while he's standing still, helpless, and tractable.

In the daylight, even in a whisper, the truth carries the potential to scorch the air they breathe. Every word would fall from his lips to rot into the ground beneath their feet until the earth opened up to consume them. Speaking the words, telling the truth – it makes it dangerous, makes it real.

The poetry writes itself, really, and he'd give anything for a rewrite on the exposition.

All the same, Dean must concede that being swallowed up by the earth would be a preferable fate to whatever Countess fucking Báthory has in store for him.

"Hey."

Dean jumps. Approximately ten feet in the air, give or take. He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, fantasizes about reeling around and throwing that nasty ass sponge right at his brother's face.

But his hands are empty. The dishes are sparkling clean, neatly arranged on the dish dryer. The sponge is laying at the bottom of the sink, limp and still crusty as fuck. When he subtly checks his watch, it's 6:38am and the dishes are done and Sam is up and he is fucking losing it.

Dean spins around, adjusting his face into some semblance of an acceptable 'it's 6:38 in the fucking morning' smile. "Morning, Sammy," he greets, because that's normal and there is absolutely nothing not normal happening here.

Sam is ambling towards the table, rubbing his eyes, scratching his head. He's like five (as evidenced by the science fair project reject in Dean's fucking pots). An enormous five. But five.

"What are you doing?" Sam manages between yawns and stretches.

"I'm, uh," he's struggling for an explanation that has nothing to do with lost time induced by sessions of manic cleaning and aggressively spacing the fuck out. When Sam finally looks up at him, Dean gestures towards the coffee maker across the room. "I'm making coffee," he finally says, throwing Sam a fake grin that is completely unacceptable at what is now 6:39am.

Sam looks at him, looks at the coffee maker, looks at him. Stares.

"Right now," Dean stumbles forward to grab the carafe out of the machine. "I'm making it right now."

He hears Sam digging through the cupboards as he's filling the carafe with water from the sink, foraging for wild hippie sustenance. Dean smirks. Little does he know that they're down to Pop Tarts, Froot Loops, and a stick of butter for breakfast. Dean used the last of the cheese. And the delicious gourmet bread. He probably should have saved the ten dollar grilled cheese for Sam _._

The fridge slams shut and he hears Sam's discontented sigh. Dean rolls his eyes, his sandwich guilt was short lived.

"So, I talked to Cas."

Dean freezes, the coffee scoop nearly falling from his hand. He clenches his jaw, squares his shoulders, resumes scooping coffee into the filter. "Yeah?" he asks mildly. "He find anything?"

"Not so much. He's kind of thrown in the towel at this point. He's, um," Sam pauses, Dean pauses. He's going to shoot that fucking ticking clock, wherever the hell it is. "He said he's coming back, didn't exactly say when, though."

Dean flips the coffee maker on and turns slowly around. Sam is leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, watching him. _Smug sonuvabitch._

Dean nods, crosses his own arms, leans back against the counter. Sam is still watching him. "Okay," he says, staring right back. "It was a good shot, but it's not the end of the line. We'll find something."

Sam huffs out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a vague noise of exasperation, Dean's not sure. He doesn't move, he's still watching Dean, like he's waiting for him to slip up, to trip and fall on all his dirty little secrets and Dean just stares right back. Two can play at this game. There's no innocent party in this room. And he gets it. Wanting to believe in messages from God because the world is crumbling at their feet. But messages and guidance don't come free of charge. There is always, always a price. And what's it gonna cost them when he tells Sam about Amara and what she's doing to him? Guilt? Anger? Another cataclysmic alteration of the natural order to pull his ass out of the fire _again_? Fessing up to Sam just ain't that easy.

"So, I caught a case," Sam says, way more brightly than the atmosphere merits. Dean blinks at him, releases his arms, and turns back around to grab a couple of coffee cups. He spoons a few teaspoons of sugar into his cup. He likes his coffee very strong and very sweet. So sue him.

When Dean doesn't respond, Sam continues, "It's not too far from here. Couple of college kids hanging out on a campground by a lake. One of them apparently just got up in the middle of the night and walked right into the water and never resurfaced."

Dean makes a face. No matter how many years it's been, how many deaths he's seen, knowing someone has died because monsters still walk the Earth still makes his heart ache. He turns back around to face Sam. "Water wraith?"

Sam nods. "Sounds like. Apparently the other kids are saying they heard stories about an old lady in green that wandered around the lake and thought it would be cool to go all Ghost Adventures on it."

The coffee maker beeps and Dean startles, turning suddenly to grab the carafe from the machine to hide his reaction. He can feel Sam's eyes on the back of his head. It's really just too early for this shit. Death and mayhem and silent judgment could as least wait until respectable business hours.

Dean clears his throat and throws Sam a glance over his shoulder as he pours the coffee. "You need me to come with?" he asks, praying that Sam will be insulted at any implication that he couldn't handle a water wraith on his own.

"Dean," Sam says, stern, no-nonsense. _Damnit._ Dean shoves the carafe back into place and turns. "Look. I don't know what's going on with you. But you can't keep this up forever." Dean crosses his arms and narrows his eyes as Sam continues, "We haven't taken a case in weeks. Hell, you haven't left the Bunker for more than a pizza run in weeks. You've been acting cagey, I know you're not sleeping." Dean feels the truth like a thousand pounds of bricks, but he doesn't waver.

Sam sighs, raises his hands in surrender. "I'll take this one, no big deal."

Sam is walking toward the door when he raises an arm to pat Dean on the shoulder in passing. He tenses, holds his breath, and Sam's arm falls away immediately. Dean desperately searches the room for something to focus on that isn't his little brother's soft, wide-eyed, puppy dog gaze.

"Look, man," Sam's tone is gentle, careful. It sounds a lot like pity and makes Dean bite down on the inside of his cheek to halt the temptation to fling insults he doesn't even mean to turn Sammy's care into ire. Sam takes a step back towards the door. "I get it. We kind of have a lot on our plates right now. But if you're not gonna talk to me, and you're not gonna talk to Cas, you need to handle your shit, Dean. We've had this conversation before. Locking yourself up in your room won't help you deal with whatever this is," Sam gestures at him, at the kitchen around them, and Dean shifts his gaze to the floor, bows his head. "We're gonna beat this, man. Just… don't go giving up on us yet."

And with that, Sam turns on his heel and walks out the door.

Dean grabs the teaspoon and pours some sugar into the second cup he had filled with coffee, grabs both, and heads for the corridor towards his room.

He's definitely gonna need that extra caffeine.

ǂ

The best dreams that Dean ever had... None of them had anything to do with hunting, with monsters, with violence, pain, or loneliness. They were always about family, devotion, never a doubt in his mind that he wasn't alone, that he had always done the best that he could. That he could be proud. Whether it was his mom or dad, whether it was Sammy or even Cas… He never doubted. He was loved and he lived a life.

The small space he's called his own for almost three years now – there's nothing to it but violence. Weapons on every surface, tucked underneath the mattress. Books filled with lore, copied pages from religious tomes, newspapers with the obituaries highlighted in red stacked in empty spaces, strewn across the floor. It's all violent, old, and reeks of death. The hunter's life. His life.

But there's a reason he keeps his arsenal locked away in the truck of the Impala, and not all of those reasons have to do with staying out of handcuffs and the threat of a reprisal as one of America's Most Wanted. For most of his life, his Baby was his home. The Impala and Sammy were all he had. He and Sam had enough violence between them. He didn't need to see it littering every inch of his house. Bloodstains were removed immediately. Weapons were always locked away at the end of the day. Baby was a taste of freedom in a life devoid of choice.

This room was meant to be his. Something that he could afford himself. Something that he could let himself have, removed from the trappings of The Life. A space that echoed the serenity of his best dreams, where he could be selfish and entirely his own.

This room has become a nightmare.

Dean is leaning against the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other, cradling his third cup of coffee this morning and pondering the limits of acceptable insanity in regards to being haunted by the existence of a past, present, and future.

Dean has considering switching rooms several times in the past few weeks. Grass is greener on the other side, fresh start, clean slate, all that bullshit. Perhaps the recycled air would be fresher or some shit, wouldn't taste so much like his particular brand of gunmetal and failure. He refuses, though. He won't allow himself to give up this room, because that's letting _them_ win. The Stynes, the Mark, The Darkness - in the end, they may break him, but they can't fucking erase him. He won't allow it.

So he stays, relying on the reach of the dull yellow glow of his lamps to fight against the shadows that creep up all around them. Dean doubts the strength of his resolve, the strength of his own mind, in this twisted dance with the Unholy fucking Spirit. But he made a promise to a guy.

Order and chaos, freedom and peace. The Universe is always going to try to tear them all apart all for the sake of power, or revenge, or a million other things that just really don't fucking matter.

He made a choice to live in the midst of a terrible war. To live in spite of it.

Dean Winchester keeps his goddamn promises.

And so he puts his empty cup down on his bedside table, pushes up his sleeves and gets to work, his soundtrack naught but his softly sung rendition of _Ten Years Gone_ in harmony with his own resounding relief.

He removes the violence from his room. He sweeps up the rock salt still scattered across the floor, empties a box of books onto his bed and loads it up with guns and knives and ammo to be tucked away in the armory. Old newspapers and empty bottles are thrown in the trash. Lore books are returned to the library, case notes are filed away.

In their place, he leaves pieces of himself:

The record collection that he vows to start rebuilding, neatly aligned next to the record player on the shelf above his bed; the remnants of his painstakingly preserved collection of classics he's picked up along the way (Vonnegut, Bradbury, Burgess, Lee), and he commits to dragging Sammy and Cas to a used bookstore so that he can finally fill in the gaps; the family photos he tapes to the wall above his desk (stopping only to drag a thumb across his mother's smiling face, to take a breath in Bobby's honor), with a promise to remember that picture frames are things that actually exist; the map of Moondor he hangs with reverence, along with a print out of the only picture he ever had of him and Charlie (At the Jubilee an entire freakin' century ago, Sam had snuck a photo on his phone. Dean was kneeling into the mud, head bowed, Charlie looking down at him – the picture of benevolence – her sword resting upon his shoulder); the fisherman's hat he arranges on the corner of his desk after finally mustering up the courage to dig it out of the trunk of the Impala (to dig up the memories of another best friend lost to the war).

His hand falls upon the wooden cross that lay flat atop his shelf. He considers it. Considers his lack of faith. Or perhaps his abundance of faith. He pushes the cross to the center of the shelf, tilting it up to lean against its side on the wall.

Dean regards the changes for a moment, smiles as his eyes rove over the memories, over the pieces of himself on display. He's exposed. And for once, it doesn't feel like a bad thing.

He allows himself a private smile. He's not any safer in this room than he was yesterday, but the ridiculous notion that the mementos - the pieces of some of the people he loved most in the world, the people he lost - could lay their ghosts to rest, well... He supposes that letting go isn't always about forgetting.

Dean glances back towards the picture of him, Sammy, and Bobby, and a passing thought has him crossing the room to his vinyl collection, fingers dancing along the albums until they find his copy of _Back in Black._ He slides the record out of the sleeve with gentle hands, revealing a banged up, but carefully preserved copy of _Iron Man: The Iron Age Vol. 1_ \- a relic from an old life, his first life.

He steps around his bed towards his desk, carefully turning the pages of the comic. When he was nineteen, Sammy had begged him to ditch Dad and spend a couple of weeks with him at Bobby's while he was on summer break. As had become tradition since they were little, when he got there, he found a bedroll for him laid out next to Sam's and the brand new Iron Man comic laying on his pillow. Dean had never wanted to waste his own money on keeping up with his favorite superheroes, so he always looked forward to indulging that particular quirk every time he and Sammy stayed with Bobby.

Sam would always read his comic once and hand it over to Dean, but Dean would savor them. He can admit now that part of the reason he didn't buy any comics for himself was because he liked the idea of Bobby picking theirs out specifically for them. He always imagined Bobby reading through the latest issues in a dusty old shop with purpose, searching for the one with the right plot and the exact right message to send to his boys.

That summer, Dean had read and reread _The Iron Age_ , over and over. It drove Sam fucking nuts, but more than once he caught the small smile on Bobby's face, the carefully averted eyes. He'd read this damn thing until it was torn, stained with coffee and engine grease, and the pages started falling out. At some point, he had started scribbling notes in the smallest, neatest script he could manage in the margins.

He pauses on one page, runs his thumb over his own writing.

 _Sometimes being a hero isn't about saving the world._

There has never been a single day, in that life or the next one, that Dean didn't wish he could believe that.

"I didn't know you enjoyed comic books."

Dean startles, slapping the pages shut and grimacing when the loose cover landed askew.

"Damnit, Cas," he bitches, turning to grace Cas with his most unimpressed expression. It's entirely ineffective because Cas is leaning against the doorframe, smirking and laughing on the inside, and Dean really can't even pretend he's mad.

Cas is home.

"Apologies," Cas holds his gaze and shrugs, not even the tiniest bit sorry. "I knocked, and called out, but no one answered."

Dean rolls his eyes. "We need a freakin' butler."

Cas has turned his attention over Dean's shoulder, taking in the new decor, so Dean spreads his arms in a general 'what do you think?' gesture.

Cas' smirk turns to a warm smile. "I like it. It – " he pauses, tilts his head, seeming to consider his words. "It feels a lot more like you."

Dean ducks his head, and if a small blush is blooming across his cheeks, he doesn't know a goddamned thing about it. He huffs out a laugh, scratches at the back of his head. "That was the idea, I guess."

Cas must mercifully sense Dean's internal litany of _pleasechangethesubjectpleasechangethesubjectpleasethesubjectpleasechangethesubject_ , because he steps into the room and gestures at the comic Dean is still holding in one hand. "Is that the only one you have?" _Yay._

Dean smiles at that. "Yeah, I, ah…" he glances between the comic book and Cas, before offering it up. Cas takes the comic, his fingers brushing Dean's lightly. He resists the urge to jerk his hand away, but only just. If Cas notices the tension, he politely ignores it, turning his attention to the comic book, regarding it as though it were some priceless artifact Dean had uncovered from the ruins of fucking Cappadocia.

Dean clears his throat and continues, "It was the only one I kept. I didn't have a lot of opportunities to get my hands on them as a kid." He gestures towards the books lining his dresser. "Most of the stuff I read was assigned reading in school and I just kept the books whenever it was time to pack up and haul ass outta town."

He watches as Cas turns each page slowly, carefully, taking in the artwork and no doubt reading every note he had left in the margins. Dean pushes his sleeves back down over his wrists and steps toward the opposite side of the room, borderline embarrassed because literally no one gives a shit about his book collection or his idolization of fucking Iron Man. But Cas is moving farther into the room now, eyes glued to the pages before him with genuine interest, not just bullshit flipping through the pages to placate his man-child bestie.

Dean grabs a pen off the top of the dresser to occupy his hands before leaning back against it, crossing one foot over the other. "So, uh, when we were kids, our dad would dump us off on Bobby sometimes. For a few days, for a few months. Whatever," he waves dismissively. "Bobby would always have the bedrolls already laid out for us when we got there, and he'd leave us each one comic book on our pillows."

Cas is still holding the comic, but his eyes are locked on Dean now, intense and wide-eyed amazement (Amazement at what? That's a fucking mystery) all at once, and Dean licks his lips, resisting the urge to squirm under the attention.

"Anyway, uh," he takes a breath, scratches at his stubble, allowing a small smile to settle in. "This was the last one Bobby ever gave me. Last summer I spent there as a kid. I read that damn thing every day, multiple times a day, 'til it was time to get back on the road."

Cas' smile is just this side of sad. "It must have meant a lot to you."

Dean smiles easily at Cas' ability to cram everything he actually wants to say into one simple sentence: It must have meant a lot to you to spend that time allowing yourself to be a kid. It must have meant a lot to you that Bobby could be every ounce the father you deserved. It must have meant a lot to you that he would gift you with something that could move and inspire you to this day.

"Yeah, I guess." Dean taps the pen against his thigh before dropping it back on top of the dresser and moving to pick up the album he had left lying on his bed. He inhales, glancing up at Cas beneath his eyelashes, exhales, trying to shake the innate fear that comes with vulnerability. "I dunno, man. There was something about that story. Stuck with me. I mean, it's just this one guy, trying to save the world and trying to save himself. And don't get me wrong, this guy was no saint. Everybody thought he was a dick, and he was. But the whole point of that story was the two people that cared most of him in the world, the people he cared the most about -" he pauses, meeting Cas' eyes, "-they uh, they finally saw him as he really was, without the armor. Pretty sure Bobby picked that shit out for me on purpose."

He laughs nervously, eyes focused on discerning the various shades of black on the album cover.

"Is there any way that you could restore it?"

Dean ponders the question for a moment, remembering he'd had the same thought when he'd hid the comic book away in this album for safe keeping.

"I think so, yeah." Tears and holes are no problem. He didn't see any serious discoloration so he wouldn't bother with it, but if the time comes, he can always just science the shit out of it. "Couple of staples, some rice paper, wax paper, little bit a glue, probably an eraser. Kid's stuff. I'll work it out," he says with a grin.

Cas' gaze falls back to the cover of the comic book, a brilliant smile splitting his face. Dean idly considers the exigency of installing defibrillators in every room.

Dean replaces the album in its proper place in his collection, his thoughts on heroes.

A man can spend his whole life trying to live up to the name, trying to save the world one poor lost soul at a time and still never really believe he's made a damned good bit of difference.

He watches as Cas places the comic in the very center of the desk with something like reverence. He watches as Cas turns back around to face him, leans against the desk and tilts his head at Dean, something akin to adoration in his eyes and Dean can't bring himself to ignore it.

Dean may not believe that he measures up to much, but the people who love him give him reason enough to keep trying, to not give up on the idea of heroes. To not give up on himself.

The idea that Dean needs to tell Cas everything is already scratching at the back of his mind, but now isn't the time. Right now, he just wants to enjoy the fact that Cas is here, that he seems content to be here.

"Welcome home, Cas."

He's rewarded with another heart stopping smile. Teeth and all. Dean is puddle of mush all over the goddamned floor.

They fall into a lull, exchanging glances from across the room. Dean has the urge to bash his head into the fucking wall because this shit is just ridiculous, but that would probably wreck the moment.

"Sam's out on a hunt," he blurts out. Because wrecking the moment is his fucking specialty.

Cas nods. The smile falls away from his face and Dean seriously reconsiders the whole bashing his head into the wall thing. "I assumed. I spoke with him last night," Cas pulls out squinty puppy dog eyed face #103 (Sam told me everything because you're a stubborn ass and I'm worried about you). "He said you've been... Not entirely yourself."

Dean crosses his arms, sets his jaw. It's not like he expected any differently. Cas has been quiet, indulgent, keeping more than a respectable distance between them, so it's not like he didn't know this was coming from the second Cas walked in the door. But fuck, man, he was trying to enjoy the moment.

Cas lifts his hands from where they were resting against his desk, mollifying. "You don't-" he pauses, offering Dean a crooked smirk that's just a tad bit too self-deprecatory. "I understand."

The veracity of the statement coupled with the wide-eyed openness when Cas lifts his gaze twists something in Dean's chest. He never said he was a saint, definitely never said he wasn't an asshole. But sometimes he still forgets he's not the only one in pain.

Dean drops his guard. It's pointless, and he sure as hell isn't looking for a fight.

Cas gives an actual fuck, maybe even several. And Dean just keeps slamming doors on every possible opportunity there is to acknowledge it.

"Look, I've been meaning to make a run for a few days, so..." Dean implores, and a small smile returns to Cas' face. He gestures toward the door, aware that Cas may not exactly like the idea any more than he does, especially since he just got back from _out there_. "We can... If you want, I mean."

Cas is already pushing himself away from the desk, sparing one last fond glance at the Iron Man comic book, at the pictures lining the wall above the desk, at the picture of Dean and Charlie on the wall. "I'll meet you at the car. Take your time."

From across the room, Dean focuses on Charlie's face. He can't help the sting in his eyes every time he thinks of her, of how she saved him, in every way imaginable, until the very end. He's here now because of her. Because she never stopped fighting for him. And he misses her. Every fucking day.

"Dean."

He sucks in a breath and comes back to himself. Cas had paused at the doorway, allowing Dean a moment he hadn't realized he needed. "I am. Happy to be home," he offers a lopsided smile, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just so you know."

And with that, Cas is gone and Dean is left standing there, mouth hanging open, caught somewhere between mystified and a little sad and so fucking gone over this guy that he's back on that notion of making his head one with the wall.

He gets to have this because of Charlie. Because his family never gave up on him. And he's grateful.

After Dean goes through the reboot process to regain some level of control over his limbs and emotions, he takes a deep breath and laughs it out, shaking his head as he shrugs on his jacket, pockets his keys, wallet, and phone.

They've got a lot to talk about. A shit ton of crap they gotta deal with.

But they're due a five minute break. Right now, all Dean wants to do is suck it up and brave the world outside just to do something normal like going fucking grocery shopping with Cas. The Darkness can take a fucking number.

Dean stops by his desk, runs his fingers over th _e Iron Man_ cover, looks up and around at his own life put on display.

It's not perfect.

There are still dust particles floating in the lamp light, he hung the Moondoor map a little crooked. There are still shadows lurking in the corners, waiting for the lights to go out. There's still a gun tucked away in the drawer of his nightstand, and he knows he's going to crack that drawer open every night before he goes to sleep because that's just his life. It's still a part of who he is. So fuck it.

It's the chaos in the order that he's brought to his space. It's an offering of peace of mind in a place of freedom, relative to perception.

It's not perfect. But he thinks he did alright.


	2. Second

Now, when Dean had suggested a venture out into the great beyond, he really only meant: let's drive five miles down the road, grab some vaguely edible shit, and haul ass back home in like twenty minutes or less. But when he pulls up to the curb across the street from the local convenience store, he's stopped short of cutting the engine when Cas reaches out a hand towards him. There's about a foot of space between Dean's arm and Cas' hand, but Cas' tension is tangible and it makes him jerk back all the same.

"Isn't there somewhere else in town we can go?" he asks, shifty eyed and guilty as all hell.

Dean looks out the window, half expecting a demon horde to manifest out of thin air, but the streets are empty. He turns in his seat to look at Cas, narrows his eyes, just stops the snarky comment before it can roll off his tongue. Cas' eyes are skittering across every surface in the car that is not in any direct proximity with Dean's face, he's slouching on the bench, actively trying to become one with the leather.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You're serious?" It comes out as a question, but Dean already knows that Cas ain't kidding.

 _Cas, what the hell did you do?_

He has the mind to ask, but then again, it's probably not really a question he wants answered. Plausible deniability and all. He just shrugs instead, throws the car back into gear and heads for the highway.

The closest Walmart is a solid hour away, give or take a couple of minutes based on his regard for the speed limit on any given day. He glances over at Cas to find that he has relaxed considerably, his attention on the road carving a path through the farmland surrounding them. It's definitely not the quick run he intended, but as he opens his Baby up, feels the hum of her engine beneath his fingertips, subtle vibrations taking up residence in his bones - he feels lighter, something that has been twisted in his chest uncoils and he breathes as though he has held his breath for days.

Dean rolls down the windows, then leans over into Cas' space to grab his cassette box from the floorboard. Cas shoos his hand away, gestures out the windshield and gives Dean an admonishing glare for taking his attention off the road. Dean just smiles.

Cas picks up the box and places it on the bench between them, his fingers gliding over the dusty plastic tapes. "Which one do you want?"

"Ahh..." Dean twists his lips in thought, mentally carding through the labels in the box. "I think I'm feelin' Motörhead."

Cas shuffles through the tapes until he finds the right one, reaching out and tapping it against Dean's bicep to get his attention. Dean grabs the tape from him, pushes it into the deck, and cranks up the volume. About halfway through _Ace of Spades_ , he can feel Cas' squinty eyed judgment face boring into the side of his face (the one that questions the existence of Dean's entire species because this isn't music, this is an abomination), but Dean just keeps his eyes on the road, grins wider as some of the anxiety that's been clinging to his skin begins to melt away.

In his periphery, he watches as Cas leans back in his seat, a small smile on his face. He absolutely does not get distracted by the wrinkles at the corners of Cas' eyes, his evidence that regardless of how subdued it may be, the smile is genuine. It's been a very long time since he's questioned Cas' capacity to feel, to care. Now, he just wonders why Cas believes he can't smile as wide as he should, why he can't laugh as loud as he wants to, why - despite the leaps and bounds he has made bridging the gap between angel and human - he remains reserved when it comes to his own emotional expression. It's something his mind circles back to often in moments of self-doubt or in the aftermath of his own emotional vulnerability, but Dean figures he has only himself to blame for it.

The thought, the past few weeks of fear and isolation, the distance between them, measured in inches and lifetimes, has Dean overcome with the need to reach out, to bridge the gap, to soak up the warmth of Cas' skin, to entwine their fingers and drag him across the - the right tires hit the rumble strips at the side of the road and he jerks the car back to middle of the lane. Cas swivels his head slowly towards Dean, his jaw is clenched and his eyes are the size of saucers. Very annoyed saucers. Dean just shrugs and smiles sheepishly, averting his eyes back to the road.

"I believe the expression is: penny for your thoughts?" Cas is going for stern, but a glance confirms that he's fighting back a smile.

Dean turns his head enough to make eye contact, opens his mouth to make a smartass comment but stops himself. He offers Cas a genuine smile instead, then turns his attention back to the road.

"I'll tell you one day, Cas."

ǂ

The Walmart adventure is surprisingly mostly uneventful.

Dean spends a good five minutes lecturing Cas in the parking lot about the importance of never, ever fucking saying _what's the worst that could happen?_ ever again. Cas argues. Tries to argue. There's really just not a valid argument ("Dean, saying those words out loud does not mark a pattern of non-deterministic events. Mathematical significance can't be pla-" "Okay, Kolmogorov, I got it. But when shit goes down, my ass is waiting in the car.").

Once they finally make it into the store, it's really not all that bad. Sure, there's tons of people, some of them speed walking through the aisles like their fifty cent off coupons are about to expire, some of them standing around in a trance like they just stumbled upon the portal to fucking Oz, but he's just going to drop that train of thought right the fuck now.

Cas seems a little on edge - he's keeping his head down, hands in his pockets, probably looking a little bit too sketchy with the trenchcoat and the eyes and the perpetual cloud of intensity that is just part of who Cas is. There was a time when Cas broadcasted _Not of this World_ everywhere he went _._ He was a hurricane with no social skills trapped in a fucking butterfly net. Now... Well, he's still got that whole hurricane thing going on - at the center of it is his will and his devotion, but the force behind it is his heart. His intensity is blinding, it's fucking terrifying, actually. But the strength by which he conceals everything that he is - that's the ineffable _something_ that keeps Dean captivated. It scares the shit out of him, the way it feels to love the heart of a tempest. But nothing else has ever made Dean feel more alive.

He shakes himself from his thoughts, runs his fingers through his hair and scratches the back of his neck, privately chastising himself for aggressively swooning in the entrance way of fucking Walmart. But the smile lingers.

Cas is watching him now, his head is tilted in question and maybe a little bit of suspicion. "Dean?"

Dean's smile only gets brighter. In answer, he hands off the cart to Cas, before brushing by, only a scant inch or two between them. "Stay close."

He hears the huff of breath as he walks on by.

Dean steers them away from the most populated aisles, intent on just getting what they need and getting the fuck out in one piece. It's not like he actually expects some variation of monster to jump out at them from behind the giant pyramid of Folgers coffee, but hey, stranger shit has happened.

Thankfully (or regrettably, he's not sure yet) the greatest threats they face come in the form of little old ladies on electric scooters and gaggles of high school kids texting and walking (or worse, texting and standing). Somewhere between the spaghetti and the cereal, Dean's plan of _get in and get the fuck out_ is shot to shit in thanks to Cas' apparently deep-seated concern for his physical wellbeing. Cas starts reading the nutritional information of everything Dean throws in the cart, placing items back on the shelves when he decides they're not worthy. They argue over fucking Cheerios and Frosted Flakes for a good five minutes ("Dean, the leading cause of dea-" "I'm pretty sure if I'm gonna die, it's not gonna be because I had a fucking heart attack in my bowl of Frosted Flakes!"), before Dean just throws the box of Honey Nut Cheerios in the general direction of the cart because he's an adult and adults make compromises. He turns and stomps away, mumbling, "Yes, dear."

Cas, of course, is a smug sonuvabitch about it.

They grab the last of the grocery items they need (see: Dean stands idly by, rolling his eyes as Cas makes the rest of the grocery shopping decisions for him) and Dean decides that he deserves a reward for good best friend behavior, so he steers them in the direction of the clothing department. Without the distraction of ingredient lists, Cas falls quiet, entirely focused on maneuvering the cart around the clothing racks and watching over Dean's shoulder for potential hazards every time he turns to walk backwards while explaining the concept of (a merciful change of topic from his goddamn colon health) and pulling up images to show Cas as evidence of humanity's failings. It does nothing to soothe Cas. In fact, he actually gets that constipated _to smite or not to smite_ look on his face, put upon by the notion of stumbling upon some of these desecrated creatures of unknown origin.

"But...why?" he asks.

Dean tosses the lightweight blue and grey flannel shirt he had been inspecting into the cart, then leans his forearms over the edge, clasping his hands together. He furrows his brow, pretends to contemplate the answer. "I dunno, man. I mean, if I lost my dog, my house, my wife, my truck...I'd probably be camping out on the floor right here, buck ass nude, because what the hell else do I got to lose."

He grins at Cas. Cas looks fucking mortified. "But you don't have a wife. Or a... And why would you-"

Dean drops a hand on Cas' shoulder, cutting him off. "Exactly. None of it makes any sense."

Cas still looks confused as fuck and possibly a little uncertain of Dean's mental stability, but it just makes him laugh, feeling lighter than he has in ages. He pats Cas' back and turns to head towards the shoe department.

"C'mon, Cas. Let's go get you some _My Little Pony_ fluffy slippers."

Cas makes a sound like an exasperated growl and Dean tosses a grin and wink over his shoulder as he walks off.

Unfortunately, they don't exactly make _My Little Pony_ fluffy slippers large enough to fit full grown man. Dean picks Cas out a pair of _Ninja Turtle_ (Leonardo specifically, because reasons) slippers instead, insists that if he's gonna make himself at home in the Bunker, he needs a pair of slippers. Mostly because Cas tends to leave his shoes on when he's lounging in Dean's fucking bed and that's just not kosher. Cas accepts the slippers with grace.

Dean is just about to tell Cas about the original _Ninja Turtles_ video game and how he should get them an NES in the house so that Cas can play it because he's got a feeling that he would be the only person Dean has ever known who could beat that fucking game when he glances down into the cart and stops. At some point, completely unbeknownst to Dean, Cas had tossed in an extra pair of _Ninja Turtle_ slippers. A pair of Raphael _Ninja Turtle_ fuzzy fucking slippers, just to be exact.

Dean remembers – a long freakin' night about a hundred and fifty years ago. He remembers being reckless, remembers what it felt like to trust Cas, to place the entirety of his transient faith in Cas. He remembers laughing.

Dean purses his lips, narrows his eyes at Cas, but Cas just rolls his lips together, suddenly very interested in the ceiling structures. _You little shit._

Cas' head is still turned towards the ceiling, but his eyes fall back to Dean.

"You're hilarious," Dean says dryly. Cas almost, _almost_ fucking laughs.

Dean doesn't really start getting antsy until he's waiting in the mile-long line to pay for their stuff. There's a 90s sitcom soccer mom (No, seriously. Scrunchy, platform flip flops, mom jeans up to her neck), gnashing her teeth at her twelve screaming, whining, pint-sized heathens, encroaching on his space, inch by inch, like ramming the cart up his ass is going to make the line magically go any friggin' faster.

The woman does, in fact, bump his ass with the cart, and he's suspended somewhere between panic and manslaughter when Cas mercifully reappears at his elbow, a bag of pork rinds (seriously, what the fuck with the pork rinds?) in his hand and his patented _I will smite the almighty fuck out of you_ look on his face. Dean looks over his shoulder at the lady, her lips twisted in a sneer, fucking staring right at them, and he settles for vindictive, instead. Dean takes the bag from Cas' hand with the dirtiest smirk he can muster, and drops his right hand to the small of Cas' back and leans in close, rasps a "Thanks, babe" into Cas' ear, just loud enough to carry.

Cas looks confused as shit. And he's probably going to regret that move in some way in the very near future. But the woman grabs her heathens and hightails it to a different lane, because hey, what a surprise, people still think a little gay love is the root of all evil in this world. When she looks back over her shoulder at them, Dean just lifts his hand from Cas' waist and waves, no fucks given.

Cas' brow is furrowed as he watches the lady make her retreat. He tilts his head and his eyes shift back to Dean, slowly drifting across his face. He doesn't say a word, just reaches into his pocket for his phone, angling himself between Dean and the next overstuffed cart in line behind him. Dean glances at the screen. Cas is playing some tower defense game and Dean just laughs, leaning in to watch.

The warmth at his side, the amused quirk of Cas' lips – it's calming and it feels safe and he thinks this is as close to _normal_ as their lives ever get.

He pushes down the swell of fear in his gut - fear of the moment that this all comes crashing down.

ǂ

The ride home is quiet. The breeze drifts in through the open windows, the radio softly turning from power ballads to static in the background. Cas has been shooting him brief, bemused looks since they left the Walmart parking lot, a hundred questions on his mind, but none he'll ever ask. He understands, and for that, Dean is grateful.

Dean thinks about normalcy. He thinks about Lisa – about her kindness, about her love. He thinks about the year he spent with her and Ben, thinks about waking up every morning, brushing his teeth, donning his costume, and lacing up his boots for another day of playing at being normal. He thinks about every day spent pretending to be someone else, someone worthy of a family and a life, someone whose past wasn't dripping with red.

He had loved Lisa. He had. With the benefit of time and distance, by circumstance and by choice, Dean could honestly say that more than anything, he had loved everything that Lisa represented. She was freedom. She was his ticket out, his clean slate. And Dean could have become anyone. He could have been a husband, a father, a carpenter, a neighbor, a friend. He could have been absolutely anyone, except for himself.

Waking up, brushing his teeth, and lacing up his boots, stepping outside of that house and going to work every day – he wasn't Dean Winchester. He was the guy that blew into town with the devil on his tail and a lifetime full of stories that he could never tell.

It wasn't real. It wasn't actually anywhere close to normal because Dean isn't normal. Nothing about his life has ever been normal, and it took him a long, long time to realize that wishing he could be someone else was pointless. Pretending to be someone he isn't, pretending to never have seen the things he's seen, trying to erase the past thirty two years of experiences, of his life, up to and including the part where he watched his own mother burst into flames – it was all in vain. Becoming someone else would never save him. And he gets that now.

Privately, he resents Lisa for it - for understanding that he needed to try, for never trying to fill the holes, for never trying to brush away the demons on his back and for never trying to replace the family that left him behind. He resents her for it because she understood long before he ever did. Because she was braver than him.

But he's grateful to her all the same, because without her kindness and her love, he would never have even begun to understand what it means to follow his heart, what it means to be brave. What it means to be strong enough to carry a lifetime of burden, to trust someone else enough to allow them to lighten the load.

His only regret is that he would never be able to say thank you, for everything she did for him.

Dean's eyes drift to the man – the angel - sitting beside him, serene, the corner of his mouth upturning infinitesimally as he stares down at his phone, no doubt noticing that Dean is watching him again. Now, when he thinks of normalcy, Dean thinks of moments like this, days like today, when _normal_ ceases to be an idea and becomes a choice – the choice to let go, the choice to be exactly who he is, demons and all. Normal is sitting here, next to his best friend - the love of his fucking life - and trusting the quiet, trusting the space between them.

As they roll into town, Dean swings up Main Street and slots the Impala into a space across the street from the local bakery. Cas looks at him questioningly and Dean smiles, reaching for the door handle.

"C'mon, there's someone I want you to meet."

The bakery is owned and operated by the most adorable little old Puerto Rican woman he's ever seen, her soft, round face, unblemished but for long laugh lines that deepened when she smiled. He had been on his way to the post office one day the better part of two years ago now, and was literally accosted by the smell of freshly baked bread and the tiniest hint of melted sugar wafting through the air. He left that day with two slices each of three different cakes, a box filled with pastelillos, and more fresh bread than he or Sam even knew what to do with.

He made a habit of stopping by the bakery every time he went into town, always leaving with his arms full of baked goods and a fond smile for the old lady standing behind the counter. The walls of the shop were covered in family photos – children, grandchildren, relatives long since passed – and little by little he learned about this woman's heart and soul. She would tell him stories about her grandchildren, gush about their achievements. She would tell him what it was like to live by the lagoons in Fajardo, her shelter from the elements a small shack, roughly constructed from wooden beams and open to the ground below. She would always reach across the counter and touch his hand, lingering just a little too long with far too much compassion, like she knew. He never doubted that she did.

He never actually learned her name. Months of calling her _ma'am_ ended abruptly the day she reached across the counter, rubbed the top of his hand, her accent thick as she said, "Ay, guapito. To family, I am Abuelita."

That feeling had carried Dean through the week.

Dean reaches out to open the door for Cas, following him inside. He stops short when he catches sight of the woman behind the counter – the girl, really – knife in hand, slicing through what looks like probably the most magnificent tres leches cake he's ever seen, perched atop a glass cake stand. The kid can't be more than eighteen. She's a pretty young lady, long dark hair cascading over one shoulder, almond shaped eyes the color of rich chocolate. The smile on her face is a little too plastic, but he recognizes her from one of the pictures on the wall – one of Abuelita's grandchildren.

He steps up to the counter as Cas wanders further into the shop, regarding the photographs and paintings of Puerto Rican landmarks that Dean has no name for.

"Can I help you?" the girl asks, her voice bright and just about as fake as her smile, not even a trace of an accent to be found. Dean thins his lips, holding back a smile. _Teenagers._

He glances toward the swinging door that leads back to the kitchen. "Yeah, is uh, Abuelita here?" he asks, stumbling ever so slightly over the foreign word.

The girl blinks at him, her eyes widening minutely. "She's not feeling very well at the moment. But I can help you," she says, way too perky, and Dean can only liken her grin to that of a shark, showing so much teeth he could probably count her freakin' cavities.

Dean looks over at Cas where he is now inspecting the pastries in the display case, swallowing down the brief flare of disappointment. There's always another day.

"That's…" he shifts awkwardly, aware that the girl is staring, but he commits. Dean plasters on a matching blank smile, leans down and rests his arm on the wooden countertop, bringing him eye to eye with the kid. He ignores the flutter of apprehension at the proximity. "That's too bad. We'll just take a loaf of Cuban and a brioche, if you don't mind."

The kid blinks at him again, her grin growing impossibly wider as she turns towards the shelves of baskets full of bread behind her.

Dean huffs a breath, angles his body towards Cas where he is still bent over scrutinizing the pastries in the case. Dean's smile softens.

"You want anything?" he asks. He already knows the answer, he just can't help but ask. Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean's, glances towards the girl grabbing their bread out of the baskets and back. He shakes his head. Molecules. Dean gets it, but he frowns to himself, mentally questions, _But the pork rinds, man. Why the fucking pork rinds?_

Nostalgia is the answer he comes up with. A good memory that he associates with his time as a human. Dean wonders if Cas understands that even feeling that kind of nostalgia, that collecting little symbols to represent singular points in time after standing on the sidelines of existence for centuries, where life and time really held no meaning , means that Cas hasn't lost an ounce of his humanity at all.

The only warning he gets is a glint of silver, caught in the sunlight streaming in through the front window, before the knife is plunging downward, slicing through his layers, grazing against his skin, lodging itself deep in the wood beneath his arm. A cold dread sweeps through him, weakening him at the knees, but he is frozen, rendered helpless by the knife cutting into his forearm, by the bone-crushing grip of a tiny hand on his wrist and the overwhelming panic at being caught out unaware. He should have known.

His vision goes grey, there is a ringing in his ears, and he hears _her_ , he feels _her_. A different small hand and the promise of eternity, a hallucination painted over in fear and pain and red. Red on the blade pressed against him. Red on the countertop before him. Tiny red spatters dotting the cheek of a beautiful girl far too young to lose her soul to the fucking Darkness set loose on this world.

Distantly, he hears his name, feels a familiar warmth beside him. Another hand falls upon his own, gripping him tight in a futile attempt at grounding him because he is already adrift, anesthetized by the darkened eyes staring straight through his goddamned soul, unraveling him, unmaking him in an echo of her fucking Maker. He stares right back in abject terror, something twisting around his heart, around his lungs. There's the taste of gunmetal mixed with bile in the back of his throat and he swallows it down, chokes on it.

He hears his name again, a whisper against the din, against the high pitched screeching in his head – it's laughter, it's fucking laughter.

 _Dean_. The scrape of Cas' voice is unmistakable, commanding, and he snaps back, flinching away from the leer twisting the lips of this little kid holding him down. The haze begins to clear, his heart is pounding wildly against his chest, desperate to force him into action, desperate to force him to survive despite already being…

 _Already being..._

"Cas..." It's a plea. He has no power here. Another wave of panic washes over him and he wants to curse, he wants to scream, to wants to find Amara, to grip the bitch around her skinny fucking neck and choke the life and the death and fucking Creation out of her but he is paralyzed. He let his guard down. He let his fucking guard down and all this time. All this time they've been searching for The Darkness, searching for Amara across the entire fucking country, and he was too goddamned clever, too arrogant to think that she would actually be lurking right outside of his door. Too fucking scared to consider the possibility that she would always _, always_ fucking know exactly where to find him.

He had bargained for a couple of hours of normalcy, some room to fucking breathe, willfully pushing away at the instincts that churned in his gut and now the ground is quaking beneath him. Eternity has come to claim him, and no amount of feigning can veil the truth of the inevitable end. And his will submits, defenseless against a force of fucking nature that has already left her marks upon his soul.

Dean let his guard down. He was selfish and careless and he put Cas in danger. Cas is in danger and he is goddamned paralyzed by the laughter, dripping ice and cruelty down his spine. This isn't Amara, this is just an innocent fucking kid and he is powerless against her. All he can do is beg. Beg for salvation, for silence, to be dragged back from the edge of the fucking breakdown he was stupid enough to believe he could resist.

The girl leans in close, her breath ghosting across his skin. "She wanted you to know."

She fucking giggles. Her grip on his wrist tightens and he registers that Cas is leaning over him, his right hand wrapped around hers on the handle of the knife, his left hand still firmly gripping Dean's fingers. He is still calling his name.

The girl releases Dean's wrist, reaching out with blinding speed to grasp a handful of his jacket, pulling him back in, inches from her face. Her eyes are so fucking empty. "She said she'll see you soon."

She pushes him back at the same time that Cas wrenches the knife up and away and pulls him close, his fingers still entwined with Dean's. The girl grins, hollow and filthy.

"Soon, Dean," she cackles. She says his fucking name and it strikes something in him like a goddamned gavel. She stretches out an arm, carelessly knocking the cake stand to the ground, shrieking laughter mingling with breaking glass. She reaches down for something before shuffling backwards to the swinging kitchen door. "She'll see you soon!" It's a promise.

Her laughter rings in his ears, hysterical - taunting him, ripping him apart, and then he sees it. The grey hair matted in blood, tangled in the girl's fingers as she drags the broken body through the kitchen door, chanting his name, howling her victory.

Dean's chest constricts, his knees buckle again as grief sweeps over him, but Cas is there – his fingers laced with Dean's, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

"Dean." Cas pulls him closer, grasping his fingers in the fabric of Dean's jacket, breaking Dean's line of sight. His eyes are blue, blue, blue against all the blood tinted grey. "Dean, we have to go. Now." Dean follows.

And then they're at the car, his back is propped up against the metal frame, Cas' hand is grasping his shoulder as he digs through Dean's pocket for the keys. He should be angry. He should be scared. He should shove Cas away, say he's fucking fine and make his own way home. But Dean is pliant as Cas unlocks the passenger side door, as Cas gently pushes him inside the car, a hand lingering on the back of Dean's neck before he shuts the door and rounds the car, climbs into the driver's side.

The weight settles upon Dean's shoulders – ten thousand pounds of burden for him to carry back up that hill. He drops his head into his hands, letting the past couple of minutes catch up with him, waiting for the crowing laughter to clear from his mind. His breath is ragged and too fucking loud in the silence of the car.

He should tip off the police, get the kid locked up before she hurts anyone else, before she hurts herself. But he can't.

A few hours of trusting the moment until the illusion was shattered. Of all the ways he could have imagined losing this war, being chained to malign, false Providence is the absolute worst fucking option.

Dean takes the deepest breath his lungs will allow, runs his hands through his hair as he shifts back against the seat. He raises his right arm, eyeing the blood coating the denim of his jacket. The cut wasn't very deep, but the damage was done.

He drops his head back, his gaze shifting to Cas – white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, blue eyes screaming their sorrow.

He was a fool to try to believe in something more than a myriad of days - sun up to sun down, daytime to nightmare - cut off from the world. Nothing but a cold bed, thin sheets, and gloomy rooms to console him. No warmth, no light. Nothing but a half-life and a slow death in the company of all the ghosts that walk in his shadow.

He should feel some level of despair. A howling sob is lodged in his throat, pent up misery threatening to overwhelm him because he fucked up. He failed Cas. He was weak, he was vulnerable because he allowed himself to believe, allowed himself to forget that he is the fucking blood in the water.

He doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel a goddamned thing.

Dean sighs heavily, averts his eyes as Cas turns towards him. The steel cage falls. The past few minutes sink in, eclipsing the hours before them, and he feels the retreat. It's cold and it's familiar - a vice grip on his heart.

Outside of his window is the little local bakery that he has visited at least once almost every month for years. The past year… He became a demon. He lost his grip on his soul. Now, he is losing every bit of hope, every already fragmented and carefully sewn together piece of himself to the consequences of the choices he has made. He hadn't seen Abuelita in months, not since Sammy and Cas brought him back. And today – the purity of the day, the peace and the freedom of enjoying the fucking moment – it reminded him of her. Bringing Cas here, introducing him to Abuelita - he was damned sure she would have been proud, would have smiled and felt joy.

Somewhere along the way, pretense became parable.

Abuelita is dead.

Message received. Loud and clear.

Cas reaches out for him, his hand hovering in the space between them, uncertain if the touch would be welcome. "Dean. . ." he trails off. There's really nothing more to say.

Dean laughs, bitter. He shifts further away, curling his body into the door. He leans his head against the window. The coolness of the glass numbs him as another ghost settles in his periphery.

"What's the worst that could happen, right?" he mocks, because it's a joke. This is a fucking joke and he is always the fucking punchline.

Cas just closes his eyes, turns the key in the ignition and takes them home.

ǂ

He wakes up in Fajardo.

Dean is sitting on a beach of orange-tinted sand, the blue sky above stretching towards the ends of the Earth, reflected in the ocean, carrying across the horizon. The shore stretches for miles on either side of him – endless, boundless. The water laps against the black rocks lining the shore, calm, deceptive of its true nature, its barely contained power. Behind him, mangroves reach for the shore, hundreds of years of life and death echoing in their roots.

There is sand everywhere. Clinging to the hems of his jeans, to his flannel shirt, caught between his toes. He regards the sand particles for a moment, unimpressed. He turns his gaze up towards the sun, relishes in the wind ruffling through his hair. He closes his eyes, welcomes the saltiness of the ocean breeze into his lungs, welcomes the sunlight seeping in through his layers, spreading across his skin, shaking away a distant chill he can't give a name to. He can't remember the last time he felt warm.

Given a map, Dean would not be able to locate this beach, not in latitude, in longitude, not in miles from the shores of the United States. It's a place he's never been. A place he'll never be. But he knows this is Fajardo. This is La Playa Escondida. He knows it is beautiful and remote, quiet and unassuming – no force, no waves – the perfect illusion of serenity.

He knows, with every certainty, that it is a lie.

But he's comfortable here. He doubts the infinite power of the ocean, but he trusts the warmth of the sun shining down on his face. For once, the quiet is comforting - a gentle, soothing rhythm of water against rock, the distant cries of wildlife at his back. He hears his name whispered on the gentle breeze, the echo of laughter on the shore. He opens his eyes.

Cas is standing in the water, up to his waist, arms outstretched like wings, his face turned upwards, drinking in the sunlight. He looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with Dean, a brillant smile on his face. Dean yearns to be closer, to slot himself against Cas' back, to wrap his arms around his waist, to keep him close, to pull him back to shore. Dean fears the riptide, unseen and fucking imminent – unstoppable and measured by lifetimes in a single moment.

But he understands. This is the closest that Cas will ever come to the sky.

Dean stands, brushes the sand from his jeans, focusing on finding a path across the rocks and into the ocean – bridging his way back to Cas. But in the next breath, Cas is standing before him, his trenchcoat and tie billowing in the breeze.

In Fajardo, with the sunlight dancing in his eyes - eyes the color of the cloudless sky above, of the ocean reaching out, grasping at infinity - Cas is beautiful. It is with sudden clarity that Dean understands that circumstances, that moments do not define truth. Truth is not absolute and time is absolutely meaningless. It's significant, he knows, but the reason - the memory is just beyond his grasp.

Cas' hands reach out for him then, and Dean closes his eyes, awaits the warmth, the comfort. He waits for the absolution, breathes his name like a prayer.

But there is nothing. Not a gentle touch, nor the ghost of breath across his skin.

Nothing.

Dean opens his eyes, searches Cas' face in confusion before he realizes that hands are framing his face, devoid of sensation. Cas' eyes are shining, his mouth forming words around the slightest smile. Dean can hear the rising tide crashing against the rocks, the water lapping at his ankles, the terns crying as they circle overheard in the orange tinged light of a rapidly setting sun. He shivers against a sudden gust of cold wind. Something changed. Something is wrong.

Cas doesn't make a sound. He's still speaking, still touching Dean's face, but there's nothing. He feels nothing. It isn't real. _This isn't fucking real._

Dean reaches up, his hand grasping for Cas' fingers where they lay against his cheek. He feels only the coolness of his own skin.

The wind is rising, cold drafts are tearing at his clothes, erasing the warmth from the sun. The sand is drifting around them now, scratching at the back of his neck, curling around them with every heavy gust. Cas is undisturbed.

The sun is crawling beneath the horizon, thunderous clouds have gathered in the sky above. The ocean is licking at his knees now, chilling him to the bone, and he is frozen, trapped in the rising tide. Cas is still moving his mouth soundlessly and Dean opens his own to beg for him to stop, to stop this. To be here. To be real.

He chokes on sand instead. The beach has risen to meet the darkening skies, caught up in the changing winds, snaking around him, clawing - the particles digging in beneath the skin, tearing him open and dragging him down.

 _down._

 _down._

Dean looks up from his knees, his head barely above water, the sand destroying his lungs as he gasps for air, as he struggles to speak, to fucking plead.

 _Please. Cas._

But Cas' eyes are wrong.

His eyes are the wrong color, his lips are the wrong shade of pink. He kneels down before Dean, untouched by the storm raging around them. When his hand cups Dean's cheek again, it's wrong. Too small, too smooth, too real and it feels like fucking fire.

It's wrong. This is wrong. Cas is wrong.

But then Cas' face is melting away, replaced with chiseled cheekbones and a thousand yard empty fucking stare and Dean wants to scream. He tries to scream - to scream for _his_ Cas, to scream for his own goddamned life, but is silenced by a hundred pounds of sand and salt water that settles in his toes, fills his empty spaces, anchors him down. He tries to move, to push back against the thin, unyielding arm wrapped around him, against the hand resting on his cheek. But he is helpless and he is mute, and he knows that he is going to die.

She smirks at him, humorless, oddly sanctimonious. Her gaze drops to his lips and he's screaming with his entire being as she leans closer. Broken laughter rolls like thunder on the wind.

"Dean, you can't fight this. You won't fight me," she whispers, so close that her lips brush against his. His stomach rebels, the bottom drops out beneath him. "This…" he shivers and she smiles, ignorant to his terror, "is destiny."

Full night has fallen, bleeding black into the ocean as it takes him. Cold, murky water flushes his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He is blind, lost and drifting. The pressure is building, a crushing weight against his skull, his lungs aching to expand. He tries to trash against the shadows creeping at the edges of his mind, to fight against the ice cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, every muscle straining to move if only just an inch. His limbs have turned to stone.

She whispers, her lips against his ear, "I'll see you soon, Dean."

She lets go.

The tempest rages, the depths crashing around him, shaking through him, resonating with his agony. Electricity crackles through the ocean, static glides across his skin. He closes his eyes, awaits the rumble of thunder, the flash of bright, white - But there is no light. There is no sound.

It's familiar, in a way. Dirt filling his lungs, pressing in all around him, pressing him down and it's cold. _It's so fucking cold._ There's a vague memory playing across his mind - of being remade from the earth, of waking up trapped by the earth. But this is sand and ice and silence, and maybe he never awoke from that nightmare at all. The earth and ice tear at his skin, flaying him open from within and without, stripping him away until he is naught but blood and bone and dust and lost entirely to the sea. Nameless and forgotten.

He feels hollow, exhausted. He is so goddamned tired - bone-dry and weary and just so fucking _done_.

It's been hours. It's been seconds. Laughter cuts through the quiet, dancing across the ether, and _she_ is still there, whispering his name, dragging him down, deeper, bereft of choice and will and any desire to survive. He wants to cry, flashes of obscure memories catch on an image of pure, blinding light.

He remembers the color blue, remembers the reasons he fights.

In one last fit of desperation, he wrestles against his grave, forces his hand up – his frozen, leaden bones shattering beneath his skin. But still he reaches for the surface, searching for the light, one last hope and one more prayer escaping from his lips.

 _Please._

 _Cas._

No light, full dark, caught somewhere between Hell and a particular kind of oblivion, every last vestige of hope fractures by the certainty of no more dawn. His heart beats out his despondency against his chest, counting down the seconds, signalling the end - the end of him, the end of it all.

He reaches further, forces his eyes open, but he is blinded by the blackened sea.

He can feel them. Hundreds, thousands of eyes watching, watching him struggle, watching him fail. The ghosts of burden come to watch the righteous man fall.

He opens his mouth in a scream.

The only sound is silence.


End file.
